Pale
by nemaara
Summary: He hates it when she gets hurt. Especially when she is protecting him. And so he always waits by her bedside, waiting for her to wake up. Oneshot - Robin/Raven.


Disclaimer: Teen Titans isn't mine

This one's a little bit angsty... just a short drabble about some of Robin's feelings while Raven's hurt. Enjoy~

"Speech"

_Thoughts_

* * *

He hated when she was like this.

So still, so pale.

Hurt.

Motionless, hovering barely above the bed, the only indication that she was not, in fact, dead. An indication that she would recover, but still, he hated seeing her like that.

Healing, but hurt.

He held her hand, her cold, cold hand, rubbing it between his own. As if trying to pass some of his life to her, so that she might not be so still, so cold, like death.

He hated how she never responded. He couldn't expect her too, while she was unconscious, but some sign that she was alive, _anything _to tell him that she had not died on him... her pulse in her wrist was oh, so faint... _too faint. _Weak, but still struggling, clinging to life, trying to heal.

He hated how she was so pale.

She was normally very pale, the greyish hue of her skin a mark of her heritage, but not like this. No, her skin was not this terrifying color of ivory, like porcelain, so deathly white, fragile... she looked as if she would break if he merely touched her, a delicate doll that could only be looked at, not handled. So pale, so still.

Her hand felt so small in his own, the tiny bones of her wrist and fingers almost like those of a child... only now, when she was hovering there, motionless, did he realize how small she really was, how vulnerable.

She was _Raven. _Normally nobody ever thought of her as just a short, defenseless girl because she really wasn't. She was the strongest among them, the darkest, the most threatening... and also the most protective and the most giving. That was why she ended up like this. Because she always tried to save someone else, at the cost of her own body.

In this case, she had taken a bullet for him.

He hated that about her. Why should she be the one to protect those that she cared about... those that she _loved__?_ Why wasn't he allowed to take a bullet for her instead?

She would have reasoned that she was more capable of it - being half demon, her body could withstand more. What would have almost certainly been fatal to him had damaged her a great deal, but she was still alive, healing, but still, so pale, so still. But, she would have said that it was better than him being dead. So that was why she always protected him.

He hated that about her. But he loved her for it too.

His hands tightened around her own. She could reason all she wanted. But they both knew that it was more than just the fact that she could withstand more, or even more than the fact that she loved him and could not bear losing him.

He had jumped fearlessly into hell and dragged her out from the pits of fire, bestowing upon her a sense of hope that she had never had before. The idea that she could have a life more than just being the daughter of a demon lord.

She had always fought Trigon, and would always do so until her last breath, but never before had she considered that as a _person, _maybe she had more left for her in her life than just that fight. Maybe she could find things to enjoy, so that she was not utterly consumed by the darkness, even if it was an integral part of her being. And he had given her that.

How could she ever thank him in return?

But he didn't want her to feel indebted to him, like he knew she did. She had once said that she would give her life to save his own, because in many ways, he had saved hers, and not just physically.

And seeing her, so pale, so still, her hand cold in his own, he knew that he hated that she felt that way. But he also knew that she loved him dearly, and it touched him that she would do that for him. But he still hated her for it.

It wasn't just the fact that he had saved her, however.

They were both creatures of darkness. They had seen and done things that belied the superheroic visages that they were supposed to uphold... there was deep set anger there, at those who had caused them harm - her father, his parents' murderer - and with both of them, there was an obsession with a sense of doing justice. She wanted to atone for what she was born to do, he wanted to make sure that others did not suffer as he did. And to do that, they sometimes had to plunge straight into the filth, into the heart of the darkness and carry with them a little piece of it.

Kindred spirits, in some ways, they were the only things keeping each other from being consumed utterly and falling prey to the filth of the world that they were trying to rectify. So dark, but each other a pillar of stability in the chaotic world.

Was it ironic, then, that she was so pale right now?

He knew that if he ever lost her, there would be no redemption. He had never loved someone quite the same way he loved her, not quite as deeply, not quite as openly, because nobody had understood him quite the way she did. But their bond ran deeper than just that... they were not just lovers, but the best of friends too, lending each other quiet strength when the world seemed to collapse in around them, two halves of the same whole. Wherever he went, she would follow, and wherever she was, he would not be found far away.

If she died, for him...

She would have told him not to waste her sacrifice. He would've known not to. He would've known that she didn't want him to be torn by the guilt of it, to pine away without her near... she would've told him to move on, to forget about her...

But how could he? She had stolen a part of him... no, half... no, she had stolen _all _of his soul, and if she was gone, then he couldn't help but feel that he would fade away with her as well.

And that did not bother him at all. Wherever she went, he would follow, be it into death's embrace itself. But he hated it when she was still right there, in his arms, motionless, so pale...

If he could have had it done his way, he would've been the one to take the bullet for her, but if he had died, he wondered what she would do. In all likelihood, she felt the same way he did. And putting that burden on her shoulders was a terrifying thought as well.

But still, she was so pale and cold that he couldn't help but want to take all the pain away from her, so that she was not hurt, having to heal for hours, just floating there, into the depths of the night, not resting, not enjoying her life as she should have been, but healing, because she had protected him. Protecting him, when she should have been protecting herself...

Her fingers twitched.

He looked up. She was so pale, but some of the color was returning to her face.

And he held his breath, as he knew he did every time she began recovering. There was no particular reason for it, save for the anticipation that came with waiting for her to heal, _knowing _that she would be okay and that she had not paid too much blood, too much of her life, to protect him...

Slowly, her body stopped floating and descended to the bed. He moved to draw the blankets around her, worrying that she might be cold, then took her hand in his own again, staring at her face.

Her ivory skin gleamed slightly in the darkness around them, her face tranquil and smooth now, now that she was finally healing, now that she was no longer quite so pale. But still so cold, deathly still, like a figurine of ice...

She was not an active person by nature and did not move much; he knew that she preferred the dreamy, almost catatonic state of sleep to the annoyances of being awake... they all knew that she liked to sit still, placid, for long periods of time, just reading, or observing, or just meditating... and it frightened him, that this stillness seemed so natural to her, because to him it seemed like death would just be a another natural state to her, the coldness, the eternal tranquility...

But, as he continued holding her, some of the warmth returned to her hand and he breathed out slowly, silently, knowing that she would be okay. A pair of eyes fluttered a couple times and a gleam of violet could be seen as her eyelids opened a sliver. She took one, shuddering breath, then caught sight of him, his grief stricken face, with tear marks dried on his cheeks, and smiled a little.

And he could not help but smile back. Because even if she had gotten hurt for him, he did not have the heart to tell her that she was wrong to do it. Even if she had thrown herself, recklessly, in front of him, to take the shot for him, he did not have the heart to tell her that she was stupid for disregarding her own safety in favor of his. He could not possibly chide her for loving him, could he?

Of course he could. "You shouldn't have."

Her eyes shimmered. "You mean everything to me," she whispered. "I had to."

He turned away, looking at the ground.

"You're not... mad at me, are you?" A slight bit of worry crept into Raven's voice.

He leaned in close, brushing a couple fingers across her cheek. "I'm going to have to lecture you about this later."

Her lips curved a little - a faint attempt at a smirk. "Later?"

"I would do it now, but you need to rest."

"Robin, I-"

"Shh," he murmured. "Rest."

She would have protested, but the darkness at the edges of her eyes began creeping inward and every single muscle in her body seemed to protest at her still being awake.

"Rest," he whispered, the word almost seeming like a lullaby.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, and the sliver of violet that was her eyes disappeared. In the darkness, he listened to her slow, even breathing, looking at her peaceful, serene face, with the silken locks of lavender hair framed around it, a faint bit of color flushed in her cheeks... he smiled.

No longer pale.


End file.
